The Sheriff of Tombstone

As we headed North the landscape changed, oddly shaped hills, typical of the Karoo, spread off into the distance. Trees were no where to be seen. Low shrubby bushes were everywhere, an indistinct grey. Every now and again a wind mill would show up in the distance. As a child traveling through the Karoo, I remember counting the wind mills as we drove through this uneventfull, tree free space, so unlike our homeland of Rhodesia. It was a challenging game, being the first to spot the next one, often far off on the horizon in any direction. We called them wind mills but they are actually wind pumps, an early example of carbon free-ness before it start trending.

My own children seem less excited about the wind mills than we had been, then we spot a man on a horse and this causes some excitement. This sighting brings up the topic of our movie that we are planning to shot, while we are in the desert. It has been on the agenda for some time and the terrain we are driving through is perceived as ideal " cowboy country". All we need is some tumble weeds a blowin.

Our destination is a small town, Nieu Bethesda, that has a single claim to significance, apart from being ideal for a cowboy movie shot, and that is The Owl House. Even the name Nieu Bethesda seems to have been a mistake. Someone who was in charge of naming the town announced in Dutch that this town should now be called Bethesda. The "now" got mixed up with the name and by the time it went to print it was Nieuw Bethesda. Now it is Nieu Bethesda.

Helen Elisabeth Martins was born here in 1897 and at the age of 78 she was still here, when, for fear of having to leave the haven of her Owl House, that she had created from her original home, she killed herself by drink caustic soda.

Catherine and the children went to see the Owl House. It had been Helen's parents house at the outset, with her marriage not going well she had returned to Nieu Bethseda to live with and care for her ageing parents. I must say that I was far more interested in the street outside the Owl House which was wide and kind of western. but no tumble weeds as yet. There was a church in the background that fitted the bill.

When the family returned form the Owl House with news of a room that had been painted entirely black, for the benefit of her father, and a brochure where I read that she called the black room; The Lion's Den. There seemed to be owls every where, with bottle bottoms (literally) for eyes. Camels, somehow, also featured in her decor and the strangeness of it all leant itself to more creativity. Now that we had experienced the Owl House and it's eccentric art, we could focus on our own fantasy: shooting the Sheriff of Tombstone.

When I was in lower senior school, we had an English teacher who gave us all the task of writing a poem and I penned the Sheriff of Tombstone. Mr Saunders was a man who wore safari suits every day and, thinking back on it, probably dyed his hair black. It was as black as The Lion's Den. Safari suits were a fashion for men in Rhodesia in the 70"s, they came in a variety of pastal colours with long or short trousers and an open collared shirt with pockets all over the place. Mr Saunders always wore a safari suit; it was only the shade of pastel that varied. He was a man of few words and even less good humour.

When he had read all of our poems, he announced that the best poems were going to be acted out on stage in the Biet Hall. One of the best poems turned out to be my western themed poem, the Sheriff of Tombstone, that conjured up a gun fight between the Sheriff and Texas Tom; with tumble weeds a blowin.... although that verse, I could no longer recall.

In fact, all I could remember was one verse and that was going to do just fine. Mila was to be the sheriff, of course, so that left Ella with Texas Tom and Oscar? We were still working on who Oscar would be, by the time we were sussing out the street for the best back drop for the gun fight. The street was dusty and deserted and the church bell chimed the hour right on queue. We decided that the guns and everything else were going to be left to our imagination. This also included Oscar improvising as a tumble weed, that chanced to be the only witness to the duel.

The sheriff of Tombstone stood there glum

His face expressionless his hand on his gun

The man he was to draw on was Texas Tom

There were two shots and Tom lay dead

His guns in the sand beside his head

Tumble weed a blowin.....